is sad to be sure
I have no history,
no flag or country,
no love, or sorrow.
My life leaves no ripple and no story,
no breath has passed my lips,
A virgin of the purest kind,
Borne of lust or love no one knows
as no stone
Marks the passing of my bones
No tears fall when I am lost.
No hearts are broken when I’m gone.
A number marks me among the countless thousands that have come and gone
before a consciousness marked the beating of my heart.
It beats no more
much to the sadness of a loving God
When two cells joined in love or lust created life unloved,
my tears unseen and unheard go to a Loving God
Who weeps alone at my passing ghost
As I cross the great divide to wait for those
Who disposed of a soul
With careless calculation
Of a right to choose life or death
And Like the Roman crowds at the gladiators fall
Put thumbs down.